


Baby, That's What Makes Us...

by IanRightsOnly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanRightsOnly/pseuds/IanRightsOnly
Summary: Ian says no more sex until Mickey gets a job. Mickey says no more sex until Ian gets over himself. Easier said than done, when you’re married and sharing the same bed.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 45
Kudos: 551





	Baby, That's What Makes Us...

**Author's Note:**

> Following Ian and Mickey's final scene in 11x02. The summary pretty much explains it. 
> 
> In other words: This fic is about sex, folks. Mostly sex, with an undertone of Ian coming to terms with the fact that he's not always right.

Maybe, possibly, when Ian very adamantly threw the _no more sex_ card at Mickey, he didn’t properly consider the ramifications beforehand. Because, really, it was just a heat of the moment way of trying to get Mickey off his ass to find a job.

And, well. It worked, sort of.

But he didn’t successfully do what Ian asked, and although Ian knows that Mickey is trying, there’s still that nagging piece of Ian’s brain that isn’t willing to back down now.

_You didn’t get a real job._

Ian was right. No, Mickey _didn’t_ get a real job.

And he needs one. He really fucking needs one, because they can’t make a sustainable livelihood out of elaborate scams and stealing shit.

Or, Jesus. Maybe they can.

Ian doesn’t fucking know, anymore.

He knows Mickey is good at it. Shit, he’s always been good at it. He’s always been able to pull shit off in a breezy, carefree way that manages to impress Ian even on their worst days. He's a tried-and-true fucking con artist, at the end of the day.

And, fine.

Ian was impressed tonight, too.

How could he not be?

Mickey brought in well over a grand, and honestly? Ian doesn’t blame him for rubbing it in his face.

Or—throwing it in his face. Literally.

But guess who’s suffering for it now, by complete fault of his own? _Ian is._

Ian is suffering because he’s too fucking stubborn to fuck his husband, who is currently lying flat on the mattress beside him, trying to balance a bottle of Old Style on his chest.

It’s worth mentioning that a previous attempt was already made—and the end result was beer soaked into the bedsheets.

“Hope I don’t spill this shit again,” Mickey says. “Bet you’d be real annoyed if you had to go find yet another set of sheets.”

Yes, in fact. He fucking would be.

He flips the page of a book that he can’t focus on, ignoring Mickey’s attempt to get a rise out of him.

“Hope I don’t accidentally spill it on your head this time,” Mickey continues. “Bet that would really suck for you, right?”

Mickey wouldn’t fucking dare _—_ would he?

Ian is freshly showered after a rather frustrated session of sit-ups, and the last thing he feels like dealing with is a bottle of beer dripping all the fuck over him.

But, still. He wouldn’t put it past Mickey to do it.

“If you pour that on my head I promise you’ll be sleeping outside,” Ian says, dryly. He doesn’t bother to look up.

“Maybe if I had something to _do_ besides balance a fuckin’ bottle of beer on my chest, you wouldn’t have to worry about it gettin’ dumped on your head.”

Yeah, well. Too fucking bad.

“Maybe you’d _have_ something to do if you got a job like I fucking asked you to.”

Maybe he’s being too harsh. Mickey tried.

But—fuck, that’s just not the point.

“Or maybe _you_ should stop askin’ me to get a shitty ass job, when you and I both know I can make a living for _both_ of us by doin’ shit like I did today.”

Again. Not the fucking point.

“ _Legal_ shit, Mickey. You need a real fucking job. A legitimate job. With a fucking paycheck.”

Mickey sits up, sets his beer on the dresser, and forcefully tosses a hundred dollar bill at Ian.

“Why do we gotta do shit your way, hm? ‘Cause we need money for monthly shit? Yeah, okay—how much you want?” Mickey shuffles to the side, pulling out several more hundred dollar bills. “Electric? Water? Heat? Cable? Phones?”

He punctuates each word by dropping another hundred dollars on Ian’s stomach.

“I fucking get it.” Ian brushes the money off his body, turning to face the wall with his back towards Mickey. He’s done with this for tonight. They’ll use Mickey’s money this month, but only because they have no fucking choice.

“You know I made enough today to pay the bills _and_ pay back more than half of our wedding money? You fuckin’ realize that, or are you too goddamn busy kissin’ Jeff Bezos’ ass to notice?”

“You mean the wedding money that you shouldn’t have spent to begin with?” Ian asks, voice muffled by the pillow he’s hugging.

He vaguely registers the sound of his book slipping between the bed and the wall, and it does nothing to help his growing irritation.

All of this is so fucking stupid.

He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to work for fucking Amazon for the rest of his life, but what the fuck alternative is there—especially right now? He’s not about to end up back in prison, and even more, he's not about to let Mickey end up back in prison, either.

Ian would lose his mind if Mickey ever got caught, and he refuses to live the rest of his life in constant fear that the fucking feds are going to show up (again) to throw Mickey behind bars.

It’s been a revolving door since Ian was fifteen, and he just can’t go through it again. Not now.

They’re fucking married now and Ian just wants to move forward. He wants to share his life with Mickey—and visiting him in prison every weekend isn’t part of that fucking plan.

“I didn’t sell a damn thing that wouldn’t have been thrown the fuck out anyway. It’s a fuckin’ waste. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and all that shit. Woulda been garbage, but I turned it to fuckin’ gold.”

“Great,” Ian says.

“Whatever,” Mickey grumbles back. “Fuck you, man—you know what? No more sex from _me_ until you get the fuck over yourself.”

Ian snorts. He turns over and sits up, eyes narrowed. “You can’t throw a no sex punishment at me when we’re already in the middle of _my_ no sex punishment for you.”

“Just fuckin’ did. Maybe if you’d quit bein’ such a bitch.”

“No,” Ian argues. “We’re not having sex because _I_ don’t want to have sex. Not because _you_ don’t want to.”

“I _don’t_ want to,” Mickey says, folding his arms over his chest. “So, I’m fuckin’ sayin’—if you gave in and decided you wanted to fuck me right now, I’d say no.”

“You—” Ian pauses, exhaling sharply. “You’d say _no?_ Yeah, right _._ If I asked you to fuck right now you’d be under me faster than I could get my fucking boxers off.”

“Could try it,” Mickey says, calmly. “Won’t matter, though. I got better things to do.”

 _“Really?_ Better things like balancing a beer bottle on your chest all night?”

Mickey shrugs. “No. Might just fuck myself, I think. As if your dick is the only thing I can put up my ass— _please._ Don’t need you. Go to bed, bitch. I got shit to do.”

Ian rolls his eyes. He feels like slamming his head against the wall.

“You’re not gonna fuck yourself with me _right here._ Go to the fucking bathroom.”

“No. It’s my fuckin’ bed, ain’t it?” Mickey snaps back. “You got a problem, sleep on the couch.”

“Mickey.”

_“Ian.”_

Mickey leans over the edge of bed, reaching beneath it to presumably pull out the black shoebox where they keep a small collection of sex toys. Nothing crazy—a purple vibrator that Mickey prefers, flavored lube that Ian likes, and a pair of handcuffs that Ian currently feels like using for non-sex purposes.

There’s also a ball gag hanging from the basketball hoop that Ian threw across the room last week, sort of by accident. And, really, if Ian felt like getting out of bed right now—he thinks that would probably come in handy, too. Also for non-sex purposes.

“Oh, _yeah_. Haven’t used this in a while,” Mickey muses, sitting back up on the bed with the vibrator in his hand. “Bet it’s as good as I remember, though.”

Ian slumps back down until he’s lying flat on his back. He sticks his thumb and index finger dramatically into his eyes, keeping them closed while Mickey continues to shuffle around.

“Oh—am I bothering you, Mr. High and Mighty Paycheck? Maybe you wouldn’t be so bitchy if you didn’t start a fuckin’ sex strike with your husband.”

Ian sighs. He will not entertain this. He will not humor this. He refuses to take the fucking bait.

“What makes you think I’m bothered? I merely suggested that you fuck yourself in the fucking bathroom. Because _some of us_ need to sleep. Because _some of us_ need to wake up early for work.”

“Sounds like a _you_ problem.”

Yes. It is very fucking much an Ian problem.

That’s the whole fucking point.

He turns back towards the wall and closes his eyes, clutching his pillow as he struggles to get comfortable. He feels the bed dip and rock beside him, as Mickey continues to shuffle around, clearly removing his clothes and getting himself ready.

When the low hum of Mickey’s vibrator clicks on, Ian begins to wish that he had a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

Maybe Mickey can fucking steal him some during his next inevitable heist for money.

Jesus—that petty voice in Ian’s head is arguably even more frustrating than Mickey himself, which is really saying something.

 _“Oh,_ yeah. That’s good. You think I need your fingers or your dick? Can do this shit in my fuckin’ sleep.”

Honestly? _Seriously?_

Mickey owes Ian much more than a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, at this point.

“ _Fuck._ Forgot how good this one feels. Mm. In fact, I think it might be a little _bigger_ than you.”

Ian has never concentrated harder on staring at a wall in his entire life. His blood feels like it’s boiling.

“Shit, yeah. Think I should do this more often. Who needs a dick in their ass when they got a big, thick fuckin’ vibrator? Since, y’know, my husband is too busy gettin’ railed by Jeff Bezos.”

Jesus fuck. _Enough_ about Jeff fucking Bezos.

“You are clearly doing just fine without me,” Ian says through gritted teeth. And, because he’s fucking irritated, he adds, “Better get used to it.”

“Oh, I’ll get used to it,” Mickey says.

He’s beginning to sound noticeably less composed.

And maybe it’s a pain in the fucking ass, to lie beside Mickey while he quite literally fucks himself. Because Ian is _human_ and he and Mickey fuck nearly every night, and Ian’s traitorous body has no idea why Mickey is moaning beside him for reasons that Ian has nothing to do with.

If nothing else, it’s a true testament to Ian’s resiliency, as Mickey starts to rock his body back and forth. He brushes up against Ian’s back, and the very clear _in, out_ motion of his arm should be considered a fucking crime way worse than any scam Mickey could pull for money.

 _“Yeah,_ just like that,” Mickey’s voice breaks into a dramatic moan, and Ian _knows_ he’s doing it on purpose—but it’s still getting under Ian’s skin in the worst fucking way. “Just how I fuckin’ like it. _Best I’ve ever had_.”

There’s an imaginary chalkboard in Ian’s mind now, as he uses it to write _I will not fuck Mickey_ over and over.

_I will not fuck Mickey. I will not fuck Mickey._

_I will not purposely shove Mickey off the bed._

_I. Will. Not. Fuck. Mickey._

But as Mickey’s moans become slightly less exaggerated, they also become more _real._ Like he’s feeling it. Like he’s getting there.

Ian fucking hates how much it’s turning him on.

He’s working his arm faster, but he’s not _quite_ where he needs to be. And Ian can tell, because Ian can always tell. He just fucking knows. He knows Mickey’s sounds, his body, his tells. He knows when Mickey is getting close, and he knows when Mickey needs more.

“You having some trouble, Mr. High and Mighty Hypocrite?” Ian taunts, turning back to face him. “Mr. I Don’t Need My Husband’s Dick to Get Off?”

 _“I don’t,_ ” Mickey insists, breathlessly.

And, no. Of course Mickey can get off in other ways, but not in the way he _wants_ to. Because it’s hard to get the angle right, and it’s hard to jerk himself off at the same time, and it doesn’t feel the way it does when it’s Ian. And Ian _knows_ that _,_ because Mickey has told him. Many times.

Maybe that’s just how it is when you spend every night with someone, learning and memorizing every inch of their body. Especially when you’ve been learning and memorizing said person’s body since you were a teenager.

And maybe Ian takes a fair bit of pride in that—in the assurance that he knows Mickey’s body better than Mickey knows himself. Because Ian can get Mickey off lightning fast, or drag it out torturously slow. He knows what turns Mickey on. He knows what puts an arch in Mickey’s back, and what makes Ian’s name fall from his lips.

Sex has become a little less frequent recently, presumably because Ian is trying to be a mature, working adult. And, sadly, there’s more to married life than just him and Mickey and how many times they can fuck in one night.

Not that they don’t still have those nights—they _do._ But at most, fucking five times in one night is a hefty effort, and not one that comes more than a few times a month.

But, even when they argue, sex is something that they’re both usually still down for. Ian doesn’t think he and Mickey have ever actively abstained from fucking each other, and he’s realizing that banging it out during a fight definitely has its benefits.

When other means of communication between them seem to fail, sex absolutely does not.

Because, let’s face it—Ian tends to be really fucking lousy with words, and he often gets frustrated instead of making his point. And Mickey listens, but he’s combative, and they end up clashing long before they have a chance to understand each other.

They’re both so fucking stubborn, and that doesn’t help, either.

And so, when all else fails, they fuck it out.

They argue and fight through sex.

They make up through sex.

They love through sex.

Like—they really, _really_ love through sex.

Ian is fully aware that they need to continue working on other means of communication, and he swears they are. They really are.

Old habits die hard, though.

It comes naturally. It feels good. It helps Ian let go, and it brings him back to his fucking senses.

And sometimes, honestly, they have their best conversations in the afterglow. When they’re lying together, tangled and breathless and buzzing, they often inadvertently discuss shit the way actual adults should.

But, meanwhile, they do shit like _this._

Ian doesn’t think an adult conversation is a viable option tonight, as Mickey relentlessly fucks himself next to Ian for the sake of making a point.

So, fuck it. Ian deserves to mess with him, because Mickey deserves to be messed _with_.

“What’s wrong, Mick?” Ian asks with a very fake sweetness to his tone. He touches a hand softly to Mickey’s bicep, and asks, “Just can’t hit it right?”

Mickey leans into Ian’s touch, and it’s an instinct—a natural reaction, whether he means to or not.

“If only you had someone to help you,” Ian says, walking his index and middle fingers slowly down Mickey’s arm.

There’s no doubt in Ian’s mind that Mickey is going to break. He’s absolutely fucking sure of it.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says— _pleads—_ as he lets his head drop back against Ian’s shoulder. He speeds up his pace, grinding down hard as he tries to find that perfect spot.

It takes Ian a second to realize that Mickey is fucking with him again, pushing his head into the crook of Ian’s neck, with hot, needy sounds spilling from his parted lips.

Ian clicks his tongue, blows out a breath, and stares straight across the room at the wall opposite their bed.

 _“Oh, fuck.”_ Mickey moans it more than _speaks_ it. His gaspy breaths seem legitimate, but most of his moans are still over the top.

Not that Ian’s body isn’t responding, because—of fucking course it is. And, decidedly, there’s no chance in hell that he’s making it through the rest of the night without jerking off. Bare minimum, if nothing else, he _needs_ to fucking jerk off.

So, if Mickey wants a game, so fucking be it.

Ian slips his hand into his boxers, and makes a show out of the moan that follows.

It gets Mickey’s attention, as his head snaps up to get a good look at Ian. He exhales through his nose, speeding his movements for a few seconds before letting out a frustrated, strangled sound.

And Ian just knows—Mickey can’t get it quite right. He’s too distracted, his arm is tired, he’s not giving himself enough of what he wants.

Which makes Ian so, _so_ spitefully happy.

He wants to bask in this, just a little bit. He takes his hand off his dick just long enough to remove his shirt, tossing it across the room and smiling when it manages to land on the basketball hoop—on top of the ball gag.

“The fuck you gettin’ naked for? No sex,” Mickey says, breathless as he struggles to keep his rhythm. “Not givin’ in, are you?”

Fuck no. This is not Ian _giving in._

No—this is Ian gearing up to drive Mickey _crazy,_ and there’s a very distinct difference.

“Who said shit about giving in?” Ian asks, shoving his boxers down his legs. He wraps a hand around his cock, biting down on his lip at the surge of relief. “I’m fucking horny, and I'm gonna jerk off. Got a problem with that? _”_

“Great,” Mickey bites out.

“Good,” Ian replies.

Now shoulder to shoulder, Ian pushes his weight against Mickey as he fucks into his own fist. He turns his head towards Mickey, moaning deliberately into his ear, watching the way it makes Mickey bite down on his bottom lip.

God, he looks fucking hot like that.

“Oh, _yeah,”_ Ian whispers, leaning forward just enough to touch his lips below Mickey’s ear.

Mickey is visibly frustrated, turning his head to face Ian. Their lips brush together, although it’s not quite enough to be a kiss—but his breath hits Ian’s face, and Ian hates how badly he _wants_ to kiss him.

It’s ridiculous. In the hottest, most incredibly irritating way, it’s so fucking ridiculous. They’re a literal fucking married couple, and yet Ian is jerking off while Mickey fucks himself to a chorus of exaggerated moans and teasing touches, all meant to make each other reluctantly come undone.

Ian hears the vibrator click off suddenly, as he lifts his head enough to see Mickey toss it across the bed. He focuses instead on wrapping a hand around his cock, resuming the same pace that he had been using to fuck himself. He takes it a step further, then, draping his left leg over Ian’s right, moaning a dramatic, _“Fuck, that’s good,”_ into Ian’s neck.

“You sure?” Ian asks. He turns his whole body towards Mickey, hovers over his ear, and whispers, “Just not good _enough—_ right?”

Mickey inhales sharply. He mirrors Ian; turns his body towards him, whether he means to or not.

“What happened to _not needing my dick?”_ Ian lets his lips brush Mickey’s cheek as he speaks, watching eagerly as his walls begin to break apart. “What happened to that _big, thick best you’ve ever had_ vibrator?”

“Fuck off— _fuck off.”_

“Too bad fucking yourself doesn’t feel _half_ as good as me fucking you,” Ian says. “God, you fucking wish, right?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Fucking make me.”

Ian doesn’t know why he says it.

It’s a direct challenge, and it defeats the entire purpose of whatever the fuck they’re doing, but—yeah, too late.

Too fucking late, because no matter what Ian was going for, he now has a very horny lapful of Mickey. He immediately grinds his ass down against Ian’s cock, eyes slipping shut and mouth falling open.

Ian’s hands are on his hips in an instant, and—fuck, he’s not _inside_ him, but he could be. In a fucking second, he could be. He could call the whole thing off and fuck Mickey the way he damn well knows Mickey wants to be fucked.

He isn’t entirely sure what the objective is anymore, but he’s fairly certain that Mickey riding his dick isn’t it.

And then, Mickey nearly punches the air out of Ian’s lungs, as he abandons all traces of his façade and says, “Fuck, Ian— _just fuck me_.”

 _Jesus_.

It’s such a cheap fucking shot. He’s already in Ian’s lap. He’s already got pressure on Ian’s dick. He’s been moaning and touching and rubbing against Ian for the last twenty fucking minutes.

_Fuck._

Mickey is still jerking himself off, rubbing the crease of his ass back and forth against Ian’s cock. He’s clearly trying to break him, and it’s fucking _working._

Because Ian can’t ignore Mickey when he’s in his fucking lap. Ian can’t ignore Mickey when his left palm is balanced on his chest, with the shine of his wedding band catching the light.

God, _Mickey._ That’s his fucking husband.

His frustrating, shit-talking, headstrong, annoying-as-fuck, _beautiful_ husband.

Okay, so. Never-fucking-mind. Maybe tonight doesn’t have to count.

Ian sits up from the bed until they’re face to face, wraps an arm around Mickey’s waist, and uses his weight to push Mickey down onto his back. He hits the mattress with Ian pressed against his chest, and although Ian planned on _at least_ withholding kisses—it’s also too late for that, probably, with their tongues already brushing together.

Jesus. Way to stand your fucking ground, Ian.

They fall into a familiar rhythm, from there. After a little bit of scrambling, positioning, and lube—Ian grabs the backs of Mickey’s thighs and pushes forward; holds them up until he’s sinking into Mickey with relative ease. It’s not going to take much for either of them, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it counts _less,_ if they can at least manage to get it over with quickly.

But, God, there’s something about the way they fucking need each other. Something about the way that need goes so bone-fucking-deep, that they can’t even get off in the same bed without _giving in._ And maybe that’s exactly why a night like tonight will almost always end like this, with Mickey moaning into Ian’s mouth while Ian fucks him the way he so resolutely had been _refusing_ to fuck him all day long.

And although certain pieces of Ian’s pride may take a serious hit in the morning, there are others that are fucking _soaring_ over the fact that Mickey can barely get off without him, anymore. Because when Mickey lies beside him, trying so desperately to fuck himself into an orgasm, Ian knows that Mickey is thinking about him. Ian knows that Mickey wants him exactly like this; on top of him, fucking into him just like this. _Just. Like. This._

It’s just how shit fucking goes, between the two of them. Because they have each other completely. Because they know each other completely. Because Ian fucking loves Mickey even when he can’t stand him, and he can’t resist that bone-deep need to _be with him._ And Mickey fucking knows it, because Mickey feels it, too. Mickey loves Ian, too, even when he can’t fucking stand him. He loves him, and he can’t resist him. And maybe it’s because they love each other so fucking completely— _so fucking stupidly_ —that they always, inevitably, end up like this.

It’s why Ian doesn’t need direction, when he speeds up and shifts his hips. It’s why there’s no bickering when they fuck like this, because there’s not a damn fucking thing to argue about, beyond maybe Mickey asking for it _fucking harder._

It’s why sex is fighting and forgiveness and love all at the same damn time, and why they’re so fucking good together. Because they love each other.

Bone-deep, stupidly, completely— _they fucking love each other._

And, fuck, Ian feels it everywhere, as his kisses melt into Mickey’s mouth. He feels it as he fucks Mickey hard—into the orgasm that Mickey couldn’t _quite_ give himself. He feels it as Mickey’s moans fill him with chills and goosebumps. He feels it as that unmistakable, escalation of pleasure coils within him, hot and powerful and _bone-deep;_ the same way he fucking loves Mickey with every single piece of his heart. With every single piece of himself.

_You’re not getting anymore sex._

Well, Ian really did mean it at the time. And he _s_ _till_ means it.

Because he wants Mickey to fucking listen to him. He wants Mickey to take him seriously.

And, okay. Yeah, maybe Mickey would take him _more_ seriously if Ian actually stuck to his guns and didn’t cave over shit like this. But that’s not the fucking point.

God, Ian doesn’t know what the fucking point is.

His thoughts feel kind of blurry, like this, with Mickey moaning his name. And he knows Mickey is fucking done for; knows he’s coming when his head drops back into his pillow, when he stops hitting back against Ian’s thrusts. He knows he’s coming from the arch in his back, and the way he gasps through another moan.

It’s really always like this—a tidal wave of pleasure going from Mickey to Ian, or Ian to Mickey—one of them comes, and the other comes immediately fucking after. Because it feels so good, and there’s nothing quite like it. Nothing quite as satisfying as the way it feels to come apart together, bone-deep, completely, at every single fucking seam.

They lie together for a few moments, as their shallow breathing begins to steady out.

Ian presses a soft kiss to Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey hums a content, happy sound. He laughs, suddenly, and there’s a very distinct smirk on his face when Ian finally looks at him.

“What the fuck is that look for?” Ian asks, narrowing his eyes.

He’s still lying on top of Mickey, and he doesn’t have a particularly strong interest in moving.

Mickey looks into his eyes, raises an eyebrow, and says, “You’re easy.”

Oh, what the fuck. “I’m _what?”_

“Easy,” Mickey repeats. “Like, in case you didn’t notice, you just fucked me.”

“I— _yeah,”_ Ian says. “Because I decided I wanted to.”

“Bullshit. More like, because I fuckin’ _made y_ ou want me,” Mickey corrects him. “As if your horny ass could ever go to bed while I fucked myself next to you.”

Ian gapes at him.

“Are you seriously suggesting that you _hustled_ me into fucking you?”

It’s kind of infuriating. Kind of hot. Kind of _obvious._

But the worst fucking part, arguably, is that this is an incredibly strong argument in Mickey’s favor. He _is_ a tremendously skilled con artist, after all.

“Would _never_ suggest that,” Mickey says, biting his bottom lip through a smile. “Think whatever the fuck you want, husband.”

Yeah, okay. So. Mickey hustled him into sex. Yeah, Ian fucked up.

New fucking plan. Tonight doesn’t count.

Tomorrow, though? Tomorrow counts.

Starting tomorrow, Mickey won’t get anymore sex until he gets a real job.

Or, at the very least—until he manages to convince Ian otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


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